The year was 2003. The age was 8. The place: Hersheypark with my grandma. I always loved riding the Comet's bunny hills or the Sooperdooperlooper's big loop or the Trailblazers twists. Storm Runner and Fahrenheit hadn't even been a figment of an imagination yet; they were not there. But this year, I would ride Hershey's "Bad Boy." I was finally tall enough, and though I was scared, I wasn't going to be outdone by my cousin Brandon, who rode it last year, but he was 9. Not 8.
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